


Deck The Halls

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown - G. K. Chesterton
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, I read every line of dialogue in this in the voices of Andrew Sachs and Olivier Pierre, I wrote this as bookverse but full disclosure, I've really outdone myself in terms of shameless fluff this time lads, M/M, as Father Brown and Flambeau in the 1984 radio series, so this could also be read as radioverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: Father Brown could ask almost anything of Flambeau, and Flambeau would do it with only minimal complaining.Even so, being asked to be Father Christmas at a children's party is asking a lot of the former greatest criminal in Europe.Written for the Crime & Christmas 2020 challenge, prompt 2: Dressing as Santa
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Crime & Christmas 2020





	Deck The Halls

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to name every fic I do for this challenge after a popular carol. Let's see how long I can keep this up.

“Father,” said Flambeau, in a low voice. “I feel ridiculous.”

The tall Frenchman stood in the draughty town hall, wearing a fur-lined red coat, which, despite having been altered, still hung several inches too short in the sleeves. On his face, he wore a long false white beard.

Father Brown smiled up at him brightly. “Nonsense,” he said. “We both know you’re no stranger to wearing all manner of strange disguises. This should be a breeze!”

The former thief bristled. “Father,” he said, a hint of danger in his voice. “My disguises were _nothing_ like this. My disguises were impenetrable.”

The little priest flashed him a sharp look of his own, but when he spoke, in a quiet straightforward voice, all he said was: “I saw through them.”

Flambeau deflated a little. “Yes, well,” he said. “You always were a remarkably clever little priest.”

“Oh no,” said the priest, brightly once more. “I wouldn’t say I’m as clever as all that. I just know _people._ One has to, you know, in my line of work.”

Flambeau felt that if that was the case, every other priest he had ever met was severely slacking in his duties, but he knew Father Brown well enough to know when there was very little point arguing with him.

“Was there _really_ no-one else available to be Father Christmas?” he said, with a weary sigh.

“I’m afraid not.” Father Brown sounded genuinely apologetic at that. “Our usual Father Christmas has gone down with the flu, and at _such_ short notice too.” The priest gave a dramatic sigh of his own. “I _did_ keep warning Frank not to work so hard. He’s not as young as he used to be, you know.”

“Are any of us?” Flambeau said, with a dry smile.

Father Brown returned his smile, before continuing. “And of course _I’d_ have loved to do it, truly I would, but I wouldn’t be able to make the change in time between the children’s carol service and the children meeting Father Christmas, and our curate can’t take my place in the service, as he’s away visiting his mother. And so you see, Flambeau, I really and truly didn’t know who else to ask.”

Flambeau gave another sigh. The little priest’s voice trembled and his eyes became wide and watery in that way of his that always made Flambeau instantly regret any even slightly harsh tone.

“You know I’m always keen to help you in any way I can, Father,” said he, resignedly. “You only ever need to say the word and I’ll come. But I’m _really_ not sure I’m suitable for this job in particular. What about my accent? Won’t little English children think it strange to receive gifts from a French Father Christmas?”

“Father Christmas is magic,” said Father Brown, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He comes from all places and he speaks all languages. I rather think he can speak in any accent he chooses.” Father Brown smiled impishly. “Besides,” he said. “I rather feel most of the little English children at our little party couldn’t tell the difference between a French accent and a Laplandic accent if their dear little lives depended on it. The English education, you know, Flambeau,” he added with a sigh. “So very Anglocentric. God save the empire, and all that. This is where it leads.”

Flambeau felt the need to say something, or else the priest was in danger of rambling away on tangents all evening. “My dear Father,” he said, impatiently. “Putting my accent aside for a moment – I don’t know _how_ to be Father Christmas! I spent many years as an accomplished and feared violent criminal, Father! This is somewhat outside of my area of expertise!”

“Oh, it’s simple!” cried the priest, flinging his hands up in exasperation. “Really Flambeau, I do think you’re making such a big fuss over nothing at all. I’ll tell you what: let’s have a little practise.”

“Oh- alright,” Flambeau said, utterly defeated. “What do you want me to do, Father?”

“You just sit in this chair over here,” Father Brown said cheerfully, taking Flambeau by the elbow and leading him to a very old looking wooden chair. “And I’ll be a child.”

The little priest then proceeded to stand before him in silence, smiling at him expectantly.

Flambeau stared back at him, equally silent.

“...Aren’t you going to greet me?” Father Brown prompted, encouragingly.

“Oh. Of course.” Flambeau cleared his throat. “...Hello, child.”

Father Brown frowned at him. “Flambeau. Have you ever actually _met_ a child? Be merry! Be festive!”

When Father Brown got swept into one of his enthusiastic moods, it was difficult for all but the hardest hearted of people not to find his enthusiasm at least a little contagious, and any hardness of heart Flambeau may have had was offset by his immense fondness for the odd little clergyman.

“Merry Christmas, little boy!” Flambeau boomed, in his most animated of deliveries. He still felt ridiculous, but it was somehow worth it to see Father Brown clap his hands with delight, face beaming.

“Yes! Yes!” the priest cried, bouncing on his toes in excitement. “Splendid! Absolutely splendid! I knew you could do it!”

“What now?” the Frenchman asked, casually, but secretly pleased at the Father’s reaction.

“Now,” said Father Brown. “I sit on your knee.” And without warning, he clambered onto Flambeau’s lap, feet swinging happily, as a baffled Flambeau automatically put an arm around him to hold him in place.

“There,” said the priest softly. “Isn’t this nice?”

It _was_ nice, Flambeau had to admit, although he felt certain a warm, soft, nicely smelling Father Brown was much more pleasant to hold than a sticky overexcited strange child. He cleared his throat once more. “What’s next?” he asked.

“Ask me my name,” came the answer from the figure on his lap.

Flambeau looked at him. “But Father,” he protested. “If Father Christmas is magic, don’t you feel he ought to already know all the children’s names?”

Father Brown frowned at him. “Now you’re just being difficult,” he said, stifling a small yawn.

He reminded Flambeau somewhat of his cat, the ex-thief realised with a smile. The way he had just climbed into his lap without so much as an invitation, and the way he seemed to grow sleepier and more relaxed the longer he stayed there. Flambeau almost felt as though he ought to start petting the priest’s head.

“Alright,” Flambeau said, softly. “What’s your name, little boy?”

“John!” Father Brown cheerfully said.

Flambeau was a little taken aback by this, so unused was he to hearing the Father’s first name. “ _John?!_ ” he said.

“I’m _trying_ to get in character for you, to help you set the mood,” said Father Brown, plainly. “I can hardly introduce myself as ‘Father J. Brown’ if I’m being a child, can I?”

“Well, I- I suppose not,” said the bemused Flambeau. “And have you been good this year, John?”

“I've done my best,” came the simple, merry reply, followed by another, less successfully stifled yawn. Flambeau tightened his grip on the priest, wrapping his arm more securely around his waist, so worried was he that the little priest may topple to the floor in his current slumberous state. He made up his mind to insist the Father got an early night that night. He would carry the priest to bed himself if he had to. Christmas was a busy time of year for any member of the church and for anyone heavily involved in community events, but that was no excuse for Father Brown to push himself to his limits.

“What would you like for Christmas, John?” he said softly.

Father Brown sighed happily, leaning against Flambeau’s broad chest. “Not much,” he said, in a sleepy, sing-song voice.

Flambeau gave a small affectionate laugh. “Father, I doubt that’s what any real child would say.”

Brown hummed thoughtfully. “But it’s true!” he said. “All I really want for Christmas is to spend it with you, Flambeau.”

Flambeau blinked, feeling strangely choked up at this. He wrapped his other arm around the priest, holding him close, and rested his chin on top of the smaller man’s head. “What a coincidence,” he murmured. “That’s all I want for Christmas too.”

“Oh!” came a quiet, delighted voice from his chest. “See? I told you you’d be a good Father Christmas. You’ve already made my Christmas wish come true.”

And that really made it all worth it, Flambeau thought.


End file.
